


The Sun Will Still Rise

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Series: Ring Like Silver, Ring Like Gold [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 9:12 Dragon Age, a cholera outbreak in the Free Marches seems of minor concern to Maric and Ferelden, until the illness crosses the sea and begins killing people in Gwaren. In the aftermath of their losses, Maric and Loghain look to each other for understanding, redemption, and solace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic holds to original canonical details about Celia Mac Tir's death, and is ignoring everything said in The World of Thedas Vol. 2 about "Maeve."

The cholera outbreak in the southern Free Marches wasn’t quite enough to frighten Maric into closing Ferelden’s borders, but it was enough to make him cautious. After several arguments with his advisors and Loghain – mostly Loghain, if he was honest – they settled on establishing quarantines and checklists in the event of infected parties making their way through the restrictions cities like Kirkwall already had in place. There were dangers, of course, but Maric feared that any more than that would send Ferelden into a panic it couldn’t afford, not only a little more than ten years after the end of the occupation, and not with the kingdom finally steady for the first time since Rowan passed. Their measures seemed to work – for two weeks, only a handful of isolated cases made it into the reports that kept him up into the night, all either sent home again or taken into the quarantines.

Three days after Maric voiced his tenuous hope that the worst was over, five people in Gwaren were sick, and one had died. Almost immediately, there began a furious exchange of messenger crows between Loghain and his wife, Celia, as he insisted she and Anora remove themselves to Denerim for their own safety, and she insisted her place was with her people. Maric only counted himself and the rest of the palace lucky that they weren’t able to argue in person, just yet – Celia was one of the few people he’d met who could match Loghain shout for throat-rending shout, her furrowed brows enough to cow nearly anyone into doing what she asked. They hadn’t met more than a handful of times, but even that was sufficient for Maric to know that he was a little bit afraid of her. When he confessed as much to Loghain one night, over wine, Loghain had snorted and said, “A sensible attitude, I think.”

In the end, Loghain was only able to extricate a promise that Anora would stay inside the castle until they knew the sickness had passed, and that Celia wouldn’t visit the quarantines. That part of the promise was especially dubious, but it had to be enough. There was nothing either of them could do, short of Loghain going out to Gwaren himself, and whether or not he would was unclear. Half the things in his room were packed, hanging out of saddlebags, but the other half stayed neatly in their places, or strewn about his desk as though he had no intention of leaving. Finally, nearly a week after the last letter from Gwaren, Maric thought it safe to ask, his eyes averted as he pretended to look over a trade agreement.

Loghain sighed. “Celia has been more than capable of running the teyrnir in my absences,” he said, more than a little guilt heavy in his tone. “I still have every confidence in her judgment and ability, even if I worry.”

“So you aren’t going?” Maric didn’t like prying when he knew Loghain found the topic uncomfortable, but something in him pushed – perhaps the thought of Loghain lying still, waxy and thin, lips cracked from dehydration as his body expunged everything it had, slowly killing him. It sat in the bottom of his stomach, churning its contents and welling up in his throat, but he swallowed against the sensation. He overreacted, he knew. His friend was hardly made of glass, sturdy where he himself was fragile, and in any case, he was grown and could make his own decisions. There was nothing really keeping him here, not when Maric was on his feet and no longer constantly wracked with his indifference to himself.

Still, Loghain cleared his throat, prevaricated, and left the question unanswered, yes or no. There was still much to be done in Denerim. Nothing that couldn’t be handled without him, of course, but Maric never said as much. His selfishness ate at him, like a poison in his chest, but it was easily ignored in the bustle of the day, in the few precious hours he spent with his son. After he went to bed, it was different, nothing to occupy him except stewing in all his regrets and anxieties. That was hardly out of the ordinary, however. Even if he couldn’t shake the pervasive fear that something would go wrong, that something awful would happen, he brushed it off as nothing to concern himself with once dawn broke. Maric often overreacted. It was as simple as that.

At council the day after next, as Maric, Loghain, and his advisors discussed whether they could afford to send another relief effort to Kirkwall amidst their own troubles, the door flew open and a sweaty young man stumbled inside. His cheeks were red, flushed with exertion – just run from the rookery, Maric imagined, as he clutched a missive in one hand. The boy handed it to Loghain with trembling fingers, his eyes wide with fear – or was it pity? – and in that instant, as Loghain unrolled the parchment and glared down at its contents, Maric knew. His advisors, who had fallen silent at the intrusion, began murmuring to each other again, most of them still pointing accusatory fingers at the map spread on the table in front of them, but Maric could only watch Loghain’s mouth twitch as he read.

“You will excuse me,” Loghain said, getting to his feet in a way that implied he was not requesting their permission. Maric barely waited for the door to shut behind his friend before he called a dismissal and hurried to follow, ignoring the cries of dismay and reminders of duty behind him. He caught up with Loghain in an antechamber, his back to the door and his gaze fixed squarely out a window, the letter still crushed in one hand. Maric threw the lock behind him, conscious of the possibility that someone had followed to drag him back down the hall.

“What happened?” he asked, hoping desperately that the fear clawing at him was unfounded. “Is it–?” The words stuck in his throat, unfinished, so he abandoned them.

For a long moment, Loghain was quiet. He stood still, stiff, his only movements side effects of the steady in and out of his breath. When he spoke, his voice rasped as though he hadn’t said a word in years, grating in a way that almost sounded harsh, cruel. “Celia,” he said slowly, bowing his head, “is in the quarantine. She’s been there for days. Apparently, she commanded the healers not to send word until she was well enough to tell me herself. They felt it was time I knew.”

Any remaining optimism Maric had died in its infancy. _Not again_ , his heart hammered against his ribcage, _this can’t happen again._ Swallowing against the sensation of bile rising in his throat, clenching his fists against the shake he could feel starting in his fingers, he pushed away memories of dark hair fanned out against a pillow, of lips growing thinner and eyesight growing weaker. This was different. “But if you go,” he choked out, “if you see her, maybe you can–”

“I may not get there in time. She’s not…” Loghain’s voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, but even so, it took Maric aback. After a stretch of silence, he tried again. “Celia has yet to improve. Anora is safe, in the castle, but she needs–”

“She needs her father,” Maric finished, stepping forward and resting a hand on Loghain’s arm, above his elbow. He felt his muscles tighten, and then relax again.

Head still bowed, back still turned, Loghain pulled a deep breath in through his nose and let it out again. “I have to finish packing,” he said, “and saddle my horse. With your leave, I’ll go as soon as I’m able.”

“I’ll see to the horse,” Maric said, giving Loghain’s arm a short squeeze. “Gather your things, and they’ll be ready when you are.”

Finally, Loghain turned to face him. His expression was hard, mouth twisted in a strange line that was almost discomfiting, but in his gaze Maric saw everything he was fighting to hide – guilt, horror, fear, things he had seen in the mirror in his own eyes every day for years. Ignoring the painful throb in his chest at the thought, he dropped his hand and took a step back.

Loghain opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again, his lips contorting back into that awkward shape. Without another word, he stormed past Maric at a pace that was nigh on a run. Maric only allowed himself a few seconds to watch him go, trying to steady himself even as he felt all that kept him grounded slipping out from under his feet.

In an hour, Loghain hefted himself onto an Antivan bred horse, a gift from some noble several years back and their fastest charger by far. Maric himself held the reins as he mounted, his heart full of things he wanted to say but was unsure how to express. He nearly wished him luck, but thought better of it when Loghain pulled the reins from his slackened grip and looked down at him, his lips still tight. Instead, he moved out of the way, holding his gaze, and nodded. With that, Loghain dug in his heels and was off, riding into the afternoon for a journey that would last four days, if he didn’t drive the horse into its grave and arrive in three. Maric doubted they would hear word even then; the returning Teyrn would likely be too busy with his family and his people to send a missive back to his overbearing king.

In Loghain’s absence, Maric felt as though the entire castle had their eyes on him. He was clucked over and checked up on more than once, marveled at behind his back as if he were in a zoo, and one little blond scullery maid with freckles on her pointed ears handed him a pastry from the kitchen and said she “hoped it might cheer him up.” She at least made him smile, reminded him of the little boy with sandy hair growing up so far away, but he found the rest of it almost irritating. They acted as though he were going to break any moment, fall back into his old habits, and leave the kingdom to hang. More than once, he made to snap at someone being especially obvious (Loghain was _not_ his minder, he could survive without him), but each time he stopped. He was only resentful of the truth behind their worries, he knew that. Those three years were not so very far behind them that he could expect Denerim to forget.

He was right, as he’d known he would be. They heard nothing from Gwaren for nearly a week, long after Loghain had arrived unless there was some sort of accident. More than once, his scribe asked him whether he wanted them to pen a letter to the Teyrn, but he always shook his head and left the subject without comment. Pestering would do them no good. News would come when there was news to be had, and until then they would have to be patient. If he were truthful, at least with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask in the first place. His tenuous ignorance ate at him, a constant worry in the back of his mind, but it left room for something to change. Even if he wasn’t sure how to hope anymore, how to pray for Celia’s life when his prayers for healing had been ignored before, it gave the rest of the castle some peace of mind.

The day that one of Gwaren’s messenger crows alighted in Denerim’s rookery was a bright one. Maric stood in the practice fields and watched as Cailan ran his drills, not quite graduated to a blunted sword but nearly there. His gaze kept darting to where he knew his father stood, checking to see whether he still paid attention, which earned him more than one admonition from his tutor. Bold, if clumsy, he made a few daring, reckless moves that Maric would have ascribed to his youth if Cailan weren’t his son. Daring and recklessness seemed to run in their blood.

“Keep at it!” he called across the yard, when Cailan landed a particularly loud blow against the tutor’s knee. “She has another knee to break.”

“Die, Orlesian scum!” Cailan cried, abandoning his “sword” to tackle the poor woman to the ground. Maric’s laughter almost completely ruined the effect of her ensuing scolding, matching Cailan’s conspiratorial look with one of his own, until he saw a servant puffing along the path with a scroll in her hand. The exchange was made in utter silence, even the sound of his son’s voice dulling with the rest of his surroundings into a muted roar, like blood pounding in his ears. He only held the scroll for a moment, trying to steel himself for whatever bad news could be inside, and felt a small but palpable rush of relief when he recognized Loghain’s handwriting. The parchment was unsigned, but that was typical, especially when he was in a hurry.

 _Celia returned to the Maker this afternoon,_ the letter read, its words matter of fact even as Maric could see ink splotches where Loghain’s hand might have shaken. _The healers want to burn her body as soon as possible, but I have convinced them to save the ashes for a ceremony. Spread of disease seems to be slowing. It would be good for the people to see their king at the Teyrna’s pyre, if it can be managed._

It was as he had feared. Folding up the letter, Maric tucked it into his belt and leaned against the fence around the practice yard, a hand over his mouth. Poor Celia. She deserved her spot at the Maker’s side, undoubtedly. For a fleeting moment, the thought of her scolding the Maker with shouts that shook the rafters passed through his mind and made him smile. Perhaps she might keep Rowan company.

Thanking the messenger and declining a reply, Maric scrubbed at his beginnings of a beard and took a deep breath. “That’s enough,” he called to Cailan, his voice deceptively calm and even. “You’ve tormented the poor woman plenty for one day. Come here.” Cailan practically scrambled to his side, two of his teeth missing out of the broad, loving smile that seemed to be reserved solely for him. His heart flipped in his chest at the sight. “Walk with me, son,” Maric said, nodding his dismissal at the tutor. Holding a hand out, he waited for Cailan’s ready grip before he led them both down the path.

They trod through the courtyard mostly in silence, while Maric thought of what to say. Cailan was so young when his mother died, he barely remembered her anymore. Much of what he did remember was filtered through what he’d seen of Maric in the aftermath, his father wasting away, his father wilting and lifeless, his father missing. The last thing Maric wanted to do was frighten him with the news of Celia’s death, but he needed to know, especially since he would be coming to Gwaren as well. Even with the cholera still a concern, their presence wasn’t just requested, it was necessary.

Finally, when they passed a wooden bench nestled up against one of the outer stone walls, Maric settled onto it and drew Cailan up beside him. The boy was only seven, and still he was almost too big to fit comfortably under his arm. That didn’t prevent Cailan from trying, however, his shoulder pressed into Maric’s side as he kicked his legs and scuffed his toes in the dirt. Maric watched him, prayed that he knew what he was doing, and cleared his throat.

“Loghain has written a letter asking us to visit Gwaren,” he said slowly, tilting his head to better see his son’s face. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

Pausing the steady back and forth pump of his legs, Cailan screwed up his nose. “Will I see Anora?” he asked, sounding as though he wasn’t sure whether to feel excited or annoyed at the thought. Maric smiled in spite of himself. They got along, he knew, almost too well sometimes, but Anora did tend to boss him around, and Cailan often got too boisterous for her to handle. He could understand a little confusion.

“Yes, I believe so. She will have need of your friendship.”

Cailan hummed, looked away with a pensive expression, and then turned in his seat to face his father, wiggling out from under the weight of his arm. For a moment, they only stared at each other, Maric’s sweet, intuitive son seeming to calculate each flicker in his expression and find him wanting. “Is something wrong, Father?” he asked, less a question and more a request for confirmation. Maric turned over every response he could think of that would soften the blow, anything he might do that would keep his son in the world he’d slowly been building since he came home, but in the end, all he could think to do was bring Cailan back against his side in a one-armed hug.

“Anora’s mother is gone, pup,” he said. “We’re going to her funeral.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Maric, Cailan, and their little retinue arrived in Gwaren, Maric settled Cailan inside the castle and left for the quarantine that sat near the harbor, close enough that it was accessible. In the amount of time it took them to travel from Denerim, the outbreak had settled into only one outstanding case, and according to reports, that person was on the mend. Several more had died, their bodies already burned for fear of contamination. When he asked the healer at the door, guarded by a solitary templar who inclined his head brusquely on Maric’s entrance, she took him to a room toward the back of the house, empty except for a table and a simple pot in the middle. Celia’s were the only ashes they had kept.

He didn’t hear the healer slip out of the room, lost in thought as he tracked lines in the pot’s blue glaze. He was still discomfited by the idea that a person could be reduced to little more than a handful of dust. So many people once in his life were now lost, and leading a war made him more familiar with death than he ever would have liked to be, but that mattered little. The ashes in front of him were once Celia Mac Tir, beautiful and terrifying, the wife of his best friend, now gone forever. He would never become used to death.

“Gwaren has suffered a great loss,” he said aloud, in part to the healer he thought was still there. When he turned at the lack of response, he saw Loghain instead, standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, leaned slightly so that his weight rested on the wooden frame. Maric’s heart caught in his throat. Loghain looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

“Her people know it,” he said. His eyes hadn’t lost any of their piercing shine, their pale blue standing out even more violently due to the darkened shadows above his cheekbones. “Their grief is incalculable. We’ve received more flowers than the staff knows what to do with.”

“Loghain,” Maric said, at a loss for a suitable greeting. Their differences far outweighed their similarities, they both knew, but never had it been better illustrated than in this. In the initial days after Rowan’s death, Maric didn’t get out of bed once, refusing visitors, food, and anything that would have taken him away from the grief that swamped him. Loghain wasn’t like that, of course, Maric never expected him to be. But that meant he had little idea of what to do or say that might provide comfort, give solace, or even express how truly sorry he was. Loghain had dragged him back from the brink of self-destruction, hefted him through years of sorrow, and it dawned on him slowly that he would never be capable of returning the favor.

Loghain walked further inside, stopped at the table, and glanced down at the urn. “There will be a service in two days,” he said, ignoring the stare he could almost certainly feel on his neck. “Her pyre will be largely symbolic, but I could not deny her the funeral she deserves. It is an ignoble death, one that I am sorry she suffered.”

“How is Anora?” Maric asked, unable to think of much else to say. Loghain snorted, but the harder lines in his face softened at what Maric assumed was the thought of his daughter.

“As well as can be expected. She keeps to herself. I trust you didn’t see her at the castle?”

Maric shook his head, just once. They hadn’t spent much time looking, but she hadn’t appeared in any of the racket they made while arriving. Doubtless, she was spending time alone, with her own thoughts. He understood. “Cailan is there. I hope he can be some small comfort to her, once she sees him.” He hesitated before speaking again, struggling against what he knew of his friend and his resistance to anything resembling pity, and his uncontrollable desire to lend Loghain what support he could. In the end, his heart overruled his head. He reached out to touch his elbow. “Are you all right?”

Loghain jerked at the contact, looking down his nose at where Maric’s fingers settled loosely around the sleeve of his shirt. In one movement, he turned his head and shook his arm loose. “I’ve lost my wife, Maric,” he said, a bite in his tone harsher than any cold. The vehemence of it was nearly enough to send Maric reeling. “Surely you remember what that’s like.”

He did. Loghain knew he did. An ache in his chest opened up sure as if someone had ripped it with their bare hands, painful enough that he felt stinging tears threatening to gather at the corners of his eyes. Crying had been rare on the worst days of his listless melancholia, supplanted mostly by a throbbing emptiness, but that never meant he particularly missed it. His mother had never cried, even in the face of her worst defeats, and he felt unworthy of her legacy for being so damnably emotional, even if he knew he couldn’t help it.

A heavy sigh drew him back to the world around him, refocused his attention on Loghain as his friend scrubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “That was unworthy. I’m sorry.”

Maric gave him a tentative smile, weak, but genuine. “I said worse to you, I think, when you came back.”

“You did.” Loghain nodded and smiled, just as uncertainly, but it felt something like progress. It gave them both the peace of mind to stand in silence for a time, the urn their mutual focus, before Loghain shifted and sighed again. “When I feel anything,” he said slowly, his gaze trained somewhere on the other side of the room, “I believe I feel angry.”

“At her, or at yourself?” Maric asked. Loghain raised an eyebrow, but seemed to honestly consider the question.

“Both, I suppose,” he said at length. Maric snorted a mirthless laugh. That sounded familiar.

“I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone, least of all you. Celia was a good woman.”

“She was.” Loghain laid one hand flat on the table that held his wife’s ashes. For a moment, his gloved fingers dug into the wood as though he intended to crush it in his grip, and then they relaxed again. He shook his head, and said, in a tone that sounded as though it better suited a dry reading of a history book, “I treated her abominably.”

Maric’s heart lurched violently as though it intended to burst from his ribs. “Loghain–”

“I have a great deal more to take care of,” he said, smoothly overriding anything else Maric might have wanted to say. Drawing himself back to full height, he straightened his tunic and clasped his hands behind his back, the Teyrn of Gwaren once more. “I trust you won’t be offended if I’m not available to play your host this evening.”

Maric grappled with his unmoving tongue until Loghain was in the doorway, obviously intent on leaving him without another word. Frustration flared in his gut. “I want to help you, Loghain,” he snapped, immediately feeling stupid for having even tried. He expected a disdainful frown, cold condescension, a biting remark, but instead, when Loghain looked at him, he saw nothing – no expression at all.

“You can’t.”

 

* * *

 

“What if the rain puts it out?” Cailan whispered, leaning into his father. Maric set a hand on his shoulder, bending slightly so that he could speak low into his ear.

“It won’t,” he said, eyes steady on the pyre as the wood began to flicker and crack. “It’s just a drizzle, son. Hush.”

The pyre seemed strange without a body on it, the blue pot with Celia’s ashes sitting in front where all could see it. In her stead, they had set down some of her possessions, the most prominent of which was a dress. It was the one she’d been married in, if Maric had his guess: a pretty thing that had lost much of its color after so many years in Celia’s closet.  There was something almost eerie about it lying there without someone to fill it. Before long, it caught fire and burned, lost in the conflagration.

To his left, a short distance away, Anora stood alone. In her mourning clothes, she looked pale as a ghost, blond hair the same color as her mother’s tucked in an austere bun. Her eyes were red with tears, and yet she shed none – proud, even at nine years old, every inch her father’s daughter. Loghain hovered not too far from her, and he was just as stiff, impassive, his eyes frozen on the smoky tendrils drifting into the sky. Maric had to choke back the rising sorrow in his chest. His friend had made it very clear that he wanted no pity or solace. In the days since their meeting in the quarantine, Loghain had seen him rarely and spoken to him less, refusing to be caught alone for even a moment. Infuriating as it was, that was how Loghain grieved – he knew that, and had experienced it first hand before. Still, a piece of him too large to be contained wished he would let Maric offer the little comfort he could. It broke his heart, to see him so.

Gwaren’s chantry Mother stepped forward, turned to face the crowd, and raised her arms to the heavens. She stood too close to the flames; sweat beaded down her forehead. “ _The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world_ ,” she warbled, her voice thick, “ _and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water_.” With her guidance, the people of Gwaren lifted their voices, joining her chorus in a solemn, plaintive plea to the Maker for the safe passage of Celia Mac Tir’s soul. Not for the first time, Maric felt struck by how much her people truly loved her.

“ _The Veil holds no uncertainty for her_ ,” Cailan sang, stumbling over the words without pausing, his voice one step off-key. Anora’s voice was high, sweet, and clear, easily picked out, and even Maric sang, as best he could. Of them all, only Loghain’s mouth remained shut. He inclined his head, eyes shut, but he made not a sound. For him, for the uncertainties he knew he must have been feeling, Maric prayed even harder.

After the service concluded, Maric made no attempt to approach Loghain. Either he would be rebuked, as he expected, or Loghain would feel forced to speak with him for the sake of public appearance, and he did not want that either. Instead, he led Cailan away, expressing condolences to those who stopped him, and walked all the way back to the castle. They were leaving again in the morning, heading home to Denerim. The kingdom wouldn’t have missed him a few more days, but there was no reason for him to stay, not when Loghain was so obviously settling back into his true role as Gwaren’s Teyrn.

It shouldn’t have upset him that Loghain wanted to do the job Maric had originally given him. He hadn’t forgotten where Loghain belonged, not truly – he spent so much time at the palace, and was so content to let Celia govern her own people, that Maric had become complacent, let himself believe it could stay that way. Evidently, he had been wrong, and he was furious with himself for pretending for so long. Gwaren needed a leader, someone who loved her and could give her their attention without distractions. Loghain could be that leader, _was_ that leader, and Maric had no right to keep him in Denerim – not now, and much as it shamed him, not in the past. If he’d been here before Celia fell ill…

Such thoughts plagued him as he finished packing that night, while he lay in bed and tried to sleep, and in the morning, as he watched the stable hands saddling horses. Cailan weaved in and out of the action, getting underfoot, and making up for it with his most charming smiles, until suddenly he was back at Maric’s side, tugging on his arm to get his attention. At the entrance to the yard, Loghain and Anora waited patiently for someone to notice them, ignoring the stammered apologies as one of the younger hands took the bags they were holding. Unease bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, Maric moved to greet them.

“Anora will be traveling with you,” Loghain said, as soon as Maric was close enough. His tone brokered no argument, but even so, he met Maric’s eyes with a steady gaze he found he had genuinely missed. “If you will have her, that is.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Maric said honestly, settling a hand on Anora’s head, briefly. She was dressed in plain riding clothes, her hair in a plait that sat over one shoulder, and if her smile was watery, the look in her eyes insisted he not mention it. “Cailan will be happy for the company. He’s over there, Anora, behind the piebald.”

“Thank you,” she said. Sparing her father a last backward glance, she headed off to root Cailan out from his hiding place. He would help her pick a horse.

Loghain huffed a heavy breath. “I apologize for how sudden this is,” he said, sounding almost genuinely so. “We had planned that she would travel with me, but I felt perhaps your son might make a better companion than I.”

“With you?” Maric repeated. Days of being ignored, refuted, and now he wanted to talk? It was hardly his fault if he didn’t understand.

“Establishing a council has taken longer than I initially thought, and the people still mourn. I may remain here for up to another week.”

“And then where will you go after that?” Maric asked, unable to keep a slight pique from his voice.

“To Denerim.”

Maric blinked. He nearly repeated him again, although he was perfectly aware of how stupid that would sound. Witness King Maric, the pretty talking-bird, unable to understand the common tongue, but capable of parroting it back to you! The worst of it was that Loghain waited patiently for his reaction, a guarded steel in his face as if he expected to be turned away. Did he think Maric so petty, that a disagreement would threaten his place in Maric’s court? Did he imagine Maric would harshly remind him of his duty to the people of Gwaren, and refuse?

He was wrong, on both counts. At his core, in the most secret parts of his heart, Maric had always been a bit of a selfish bastard.

“I thought we would be going home without you,” he said.

Loghain still looked raw, and tired, as though he hadn’t slept at all in days. Dark circles under his eyes gave his skin a sickly pallor, his skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, and yet – he smiled. It was a true smile, if a weak one, and he seemed to feel guilty for it, but it sat on his lips just the same. Maric nearly put a hand on his chest to cover the little thrill he felt for the sight.

“Not this time,” Loghain said – and that was the end of it. Maric left for Denerim that day with a heart lighter than it had been in weeks, enjoying even the inevitable bickering coming from Cailan and Anora behind him. He pushed aside any thoughts of regret or shame, the lingering doubts in his mind left to wait for another time. Maker forgive him, all that truly mattered was that Loghain would come home. They had lost each other once thanks to Loghain’s sense of duty. Even if his nation was the poorer for it, he was glad this would not be the case again.

He’d been wrong in his self-assessment, before, Maric thought a bit ruefully. He was a _horribly_ selfish bastard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A dark cloud over your bed  
> You're so sad that you just might die, but  
> The sun will still rise.  
> The sun will still rise."  
> -Hardliners, Holcombe Waller

True to his word, Loghain arrived less than two weeks after Celia’s funeral. He brought with him a great deal of Anora’s belongings, obviously intent on fostering her within the palace for at least the foreseeable future. Maric rather liked the idea. Gwaren had always felt empty compared to home, absent the cheery warmth that seemed to suffuse Denerim down to the very stones. Besides, Anora would have Cailan’s company. He had been good to her since the funeral, understanding in a way that even people who should have known better could not achieve.  They argued, of course, and Anora had a habit of bossiness that sometimes manifested in rude little ways, but there was no doubt that Cailan cared for her.

“She never says that she’s sad,” Cailan told him in confidence one day, “but I’m learning how to see it. That way I can keep people from bothering her, and maybe one day she’ll start feeling better.”

Unable to speak, he’d ruffled Cailan’s hair and sent him off to entertain himself, sitting at his desk with a hand over his mouth for a time. He hadn’t the heart to tell his son that he’d been trying to do the same for Loghain for years, and still he often felt as if he failed. In all the time he and Loghain spent together after his arrival – hiring tutors for Anora’s edification, attending cabinet meetings, the rare evening spent in each other’s company – not once did he mention his wife’s passing. Maric might have guessed it never happened, if not for Loghain’s sudden faraway gazes, or the way he sighed into his palm after dragging it down his forehead. What Anora had failed to gain from Loghain in his looks, she cultivated in her mannerisms, including his dislike for anything that even resembled comfort. At best, his son had his work cut out for him.

They passed a month this way. Sadness never truly left Anora’s face, but she did indeed begin to feel better. Her smiles seemed to shake the last cobwebs of fear from the castle, and soon she and Cailan were making enough noise for a dozen children rather than just two. It filled Maric’s heart to see them, playing in garden dirt or listening attentively to Mother Ailis tell one of her stories. He was even beginning to think it might be worth discussing a betrothal, but they had a good number of years left before it would be time to worry about such things.

Loghain’s mood, on the other hand, never seemed to improve.  To those who knew little of him, he appeared much the same as ever – and if he was more reticent than usual, who could blame him? He sorrowed, surely, with so little time passed since Celia’s death. Even in his apparent grief, he never shirked his duties, and could often be found spending time with his daughter. A model widower, Maric caught himself thinking more than once, despite his knowing that it was unfair. Besides, even though Maric had every reason to believe otherwise, he knew that something else was bothering Loghain. It was difficult to explain, especially considering that his evidence consisted of behavioral changes that only Maric would notice. Still, it distressed him, seeing his friend so affected.

Approaching him directly about Maric’s concerns was out of the question. He hadn’t forgotten Loghain’s rebuke that day inside the Gwaren quarantine, nor his insistence that Maric could not help him. After coming so close to the thought of losing him, to both his teyrnir and his temper, Maric had no desire to rekindle any argument by needless pressing. Even though it felt as if every bone in his body cried out for resolution, to urge Loghain to speak, if only to unburden himself – he left it alone. The feeling sat between them, like a yawing divide, but so long as his friend was willing to ignore it, there was very little he could do.

He felt it keenly, about a month and a half after the funeral, slumped back into his favorite armchair in his solar. Loghain sat in its match, frowning into the fire as he swirled his cup of wine absently in his hand. They had been there for what Maric thought had to be at least an hour, exchanging a few quiet remarks when the mood struck them, but what they had left unsaid made it seem as if they were miles apart. He missed the ease of their friendship, how natural it was to confide in Loghain and expect the same sort of honesty, even if Loghain’s versions of honesty usually meant unsolicited, scathing opinions. He might have even missed those the most.

Finally, when Maric was beginning to think he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, Loghain sighed heavily and leaned forward to set his cup, almost full, on the table between them. They had barely made it through half the bottle, sitting uncorked on the sideboard. It was more about having something to do with his hands, Maric thought, looking down at his own cup. If he’d wanted to get properly drunk, he would have made more of a commitment.

“You’ve been quiet,” Loghain said. His voice seemed to fill the room, previously devoid of any noise but shuffling feet and crackling logs. Maric nearly snorted, turning it into a polite cough.

“It was a long day,” he replied. It was an honest answer, if given for a dishonest reason. They had been busy with a great number of things, including the arrival of a small number of dignitaries from the Free Marches, practically oozing praise for Ferelden’s assistance during their time of crisis. He had ingratiated himself to them, although he didn’t know if a group of squabbling city-states made for a particularly desirable ally. That would remain to be seen, he supposed. He hadn’t done it for political gain, anyway.

Loghain shook his head. “I don’t mean tonight, I mean lately. Forgive me for saying so,” he continued, with a look in his eyes that said he didn’t want to be forgiven at all, “but all our long years, I’ve never known your silence to be anything but a harbinger of trouble.”

Leaning to set his cup next to Loghain’s, Maric gave him a half-hearted glare and considered his answer. He hardly wanted to stumble into the exact situation he’d tried so desperately to avoid. “I didn’t think you wanted to talk,” he said, maybe a little too carefully. He saw it in the quick furrow in Loghain’s brow, a moment of defensive irritation – but before Maric could think of something new to say, the furrow was gone.

“No,” Loghain said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t. I don’t, really.”

Without his favorite suit of armor, Loghain almost seemed small. It was a ridiculous thought; the man was physically imposing even without the silver plate that made him larger than life. Still, in his simple tunic and breeches, he was dressed more like a farmhand than… whatever he was now.

It was funny - they’d never changed his title. There was no need to, really, but his function in Denerim was hardly that of a Teyrn. Advisor was close to the right word for it, and yet he felt… more, more vital, even integral, as if he were an extension of Maric’s own body.

Loghain set his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor through them. He took a deep breath, as if about to dive underwater, and said, quietly, “I never cared for her the way she deserved.”

Their conversation – their argument – in Gwaren rang loudly in Maric’s ears. Had he carried this guilt for so long? The sudden, familiar yearning to place his hand on his arm, to offer support through his touch, opened up in the pit of his stomach.

“Celia loved you,” Maric promised, sitting forward in earnest, “as I know you loved her.”

In truth, he’d seen so little of Celia that he based this declaration more on feeling than fact. It had been there, he thought, if you paid attention. Neither of them ever said as much, not made for professing their feelings the way Maric did, but the depth of affection was clear in the way she had smiled at Loghain, and even in their bickering. They were unusual, to be sure, but they suited one another. It had been nice to see, especially in the earlier days of their marriage, assuring him that Loghain wasn’t just sitting in Gwaren punishing himself for perceived slights.

“I did,” Loghain said. “That doesn’t excuse the way I behaved.”

“The way you behaved? Maker’s breath, man, what could you have possibly done to her? You trusted her with–”

“Everything,” Loghain snapped, “that’s exactly my point. I left her, Maric; I as good as left her, with both my title and my daughter.  She ran the entire teyrnir and raised our child in my absence, while I–” He stopped himself, that time, giving Maric an almost furtive look, and Maric understood. It pained him, deeply, but he understood.

“You were in Denerim,” he said, trying not to sound offended. This wasn’t about him, he knew, and he wasn’t about to try to take Loghain’s guilt and turn it on himself. Still, he couldn’t help a little waver in his voice. He swallowed it down quickly as he could. “You left because I – because your king needed you. You should be blaming me, not yourself.”

Loghain’s shoulders sagged, as if he felt weighted with a heavy burden. Shaking his head, he turned away to look again at the fireplace and spoke so low, Maric almost didn’t hear him: “You haven’t needed me in years.” Something stuck in Maric’s throat and choked him as his pulse jumped, skipped, as if to say, _untrue_. Loghain kept talking, growing louder and sounding more assured. “I could have gone home several times over, if I’d wanted, and I didn’t. I made the choice to abandon my wife, and now that I’ve lost her as well, the least I can do is acknowledge my failings.”

As well? Maric frowned, and began to ask what it was he meant by that, _as well_ – but then it struck him. In the worst moments after Rowan’s death, when Maric laid in his bed and thought about dying himself to be done with the ache of it all, he often forgot that he was not the only man in the world who suffered for her. Ferelden lost its beloved queen, so shortly after her ascension. Cailan lost his mother, and Loghain lost the woman he had loved, once. He loved her still, just as Maric loved her still, but it was always different between the two of them. She had at least been his wife for a time. Loghain had lost her the night Maric… the night he…

He knew better than many how difficult it was to reconcile more than one affection in his heart, how to juggle what people meant not only in a way that made sense to himself, but in a way that was acceptable to others. Loving Rowan even three years after her death had changed the way he saw Fiona. It changed things now, ghosts of old loves tangling up in his throat so that it was almost difficult to breathe. He didn’t have to imagine what it must be like, to marry someone and know that in their heart, they cared for someone else. On his wedding day, looking at Rowan’s distant smile, he’d known.

None of it was Loghain’s fault, and yet how would that convince him to believe it? Maric had suffered years of blaming himself for everything, and still did, in his blacker moods. There was little he, of all people, could do to persuade Loghain otherwise.

Heaving a sigh, Maric rubbed his chin, his bristles almost a fully-fledged beard. “Maker,” he said. “What a pair we make.”

Loghain snorted. “I suppose we do.”

Maric’s urge to go to him had yet to die, he found, frowning at himself as though he could chastise the feeling into submission. Unable to bear it any longer, he pulled himself out of his chair, stiff with sitting. Loghain looked at him sharply and rose as well, an obvious force of habit. Just as well. He crossed the short distance between them to lay his hand on Loghain’s shoulder.

“You weren’t cruel to her,” he said, meeting his gaze. They weren’t quite of a height. Loghain was taller than him by only a negligible amount, but standing so close meant he had to tip his chin, a little. “You loved her. That has to count for something.”

Loghain’s furrowed brow and the downturn of his lip only lasted a moment. His expression cleared, somewhat, and gave way to a very small smile. It was sad, Maric thought, tainted by something he couldn’t read, but he was gratified to see it, anyway.

“It counts for little, I’m afraid,” Loghain said. As he spoke, he raised his hand to Maric’s where it rested against his shoulder. Maric expected him to rebuke his touch, as he usually did, only ever endured for a brief amount of time before they reverted to cautious neutrality. Instead, Loghain wrapped his fingers around Maric’s wrist. “It wasn’t enough for me to stay.”

Later, Maric wouldn’t be able to pinpoint exactly what dragged the next blunder out of his mouth. Had he drank more, he might have blamed it on the wine, but his head was clear. It might have been the proximity, the casual way Loghain held to his arm as they practically shared breath, or the thrumming of his heart. Regardless, instead of carefully guarding his tongue, instead of employing his usual litany of reminders to behave himself, Maric found himself speaking.

“Do you ever think,” he began, trailing off momentarily as he searched for the right words, “do you ever think things might have been different? If we had, I don’t know. Changed something. Talked more. Before all of this… happened.”

As he prattled, Loghain looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes. That was Maric’s first warning, a sign that he had stepped just a shade too far, but it was much too late for warnings. Dropping his grip, at which Maric felt a brief but almost overwhelming wave of loss, he took a step back so that he was out of reach. “Meaning?” he asked, looking as if he already knew the answer.

Maric winced. “Would anything have been different,” he said slowly, wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth at all, “if we had discussed… things, before I became king. With Rowan.”

He almost expected Loghain to get angry, to shout, or accuse him of something. That might have been easier to handle than watching Loghain’s face fall. It was an almost imperceptible change of expression, but enough that he knew. “What could we have done differently?” Loghain asked. They had never discussed anything like this, not once, but he sounded patient. Tired, even, like someone who had repeated this conversation many times. “The problems we – nothing could have changed, Maric. We all did what was necessary. What was right. If there was another way, I never saw it.”

“I’m sorry,” Maric said, meaning it quite genuinely. “I didn’t mean…” He couldn’t finish. He had taken something good, the first honest moment between them in what felt like ages, and he had ruined it. There was nothing left for them but to end the night. In the morning, they could pretend that they had been fogged with wine, or that their conversation had never happened at all. Resolute, Maric took a step back and cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you be. Good night.”

The door to his bedroom lay beyond Loghain, past the fireplace and the armchairs – his sanctuary, if he could only get by with even a modicum of dignity. Squaring his shoulders, Maric averted his eyes and headed in its direction, almost putting his feet in the fireplace for how closely he walked along the wall. Even so, his shoulder brushed Loghain’s, cloth whispering in their passing.

A firm hand grabbed his arm, just above his elbow, and prevented him from taking another step. Heart pounding wildly, a thrill of terror roiling in the pit of his stomach, Maric turned slowly. Loghain’s eyes pierced his, so blue they were nearly white, like ice on the cusp of thawing. He had trouble placing his expression, its recognizable pieces impossible to comprehend as a whole.

“What did you mean?” Loghain asked, hesitantly. _Hesitantly_. Loghain was so rarely unsure, firm in his opinions and beliefs, even if they were wrong. It was one of his faults and his strengths, something Maric admired as much as it drove him mad – and suddenly, the lines of Loghain’s face, the whites of his eyes and the downturn of his mouth, all began to suggest something unthinkable.

Loghain was afraid.

Mouth suddenly dry, Maric scrambled to think of something. All his possible answers presented themselves in more questions: What if she hadn’t had to leave you? What if you hadn’t thought you had to leave us? What if we all –

That thought cut itself off, too dangerous to express aloud, too much like destroying everything he had tried so hard to keep – and yet it was what he wanted to say. Explaining it would likely take hours, all night, detailing the extensive rearranging of his thoughts a short two years prior, the realization that the three of them had been so unbearably stupid. Maric didn’t have enough words for it, or the patience, and in a way, he was afraid, too.

As Maric stared blankly at his best friend’s frown, a solution presented itself. His eyes trailed over Loghain’s brow, the crinkle in his nose, and settled on his lips. They were thin, surrounded by the evening’s stubble and familiar in a thousand ways, save perhaps one or two he only dared to think of when he was at the lowest points of desperation. He thought of them that way now.

He wouldn’t do anything Loghain did not want, he promised himself. If he gave even the slightest indication of disgust, or resignation, or – the very notion broke his heart, but of course, he would retreat immediately. A blunt approach would be key, obvious in his intentions so that there was no real surprise, except for the obvious.

Maric swallowed. They had been standing in silence too long.

Pulling his gaze away from Loghain’s lips, Maric met his eyes again. Something had changed. He wasn’t sure, and the clearer parts of his mind insisted he was making a terrible mistake, but it almost seemed as though…

Slowly, unsteadily inhaling, he leaned in. Once he knew where he was headed, his eyes slipped shut on instinct. It was like a freefall in pitch black, nothing to guide him but the hand on his arm and the puff of breath against his chin, until he felt another mouth on his and the world erupted into color.

There was no resistance. Maric had no idea what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the _whuff_ of air that came from Loghain’s nose sharp as if he’d been punched, or the way his lips felt… pliant, was the word his mind supplied. It wasn’t an exciting kiss, but when Maric moved, Loghain moved back: a participant, if not a very active one. That was fine. This was fine. More than fine, he thought, feeling the grip above his elbow tighten, lifting his hand to cup Loghain’s jaw; it was something he could never have expected even if he’d let himself plan this. It was good. It felt right.

At the first hint of fingers on his face, Loghain jerked backward and let him go. Maric couldn’t hear himself think over the pounding in his ears, the resurgence of bone-rattling panic predicting his ultimate rejection, so instead of thinking, he waited. Regardless of what happened next, it was too late to take it back. Now that he’d done it, he didn’t want to take it back. He should have done it two years ago, when he first began to understand what it meant that his heart beat faster when Loghain stood close. He might have even done it sooner, before he realized what he should have known from the beginning, before there was a crown on his head, and before they utterly ruined each other, all three of them: him, Loghain, and Rowan.

Loghain stared at him as if Maric might reveal another secret if he was patient enough, or laugh off what he’d done. He did neither. He simply stood still, waiting to see if Loghain might accept his offer, whatever it was – even he didn’t truly know. He wasn’t sure what he _could_ offer, besides himself.

There was a tremble in Loghain’s hands, clenched at his side. A desperate glint flickered in his eyes, the look of a starving animal.

“I meant,” Maric began, reclaiming the gap between them. Loghain did not give him the chance to finish. One hand fisted into Maric’s hair, the other settling at the top of his spine, and in an instant, anything he might have said disappeared in the form of a sigh pushed into Loghain’s open mouth.

Their second kiss was a great deal less cautious than their first. The first swipe of a tongue against his made his breathing falter, clutching Loghain’s elbow and hip as if he might fall without their steadying influence. It had been ages since Maric had kissed anyone, and he felt his technique a bit lacking for the gap in experience, but Loghain didn’t seem to mind. Maric also caught himself making a number of embarrassing noises, too focused on how damnably good the fingers digging into his scalp felt. Besides, it was _Loghain_ kissing him, filling his head with his proximity and smell (like being in the woods, always, no matter when he’d last left the palace). That was worth any semblance of pride to which he could still lay claim.

The kisses after that, Maric did not count. They began to blend, interrupted only by quick gasps of air stolen between shifting angles. Once, when he tilted his head away to breathe, he saw a few patches of slightly reddened skin around Loghain’s mouth and felt a surge of guilt. He was tempted to scratch at his beard and smooth it down, although he wasn’t sure what that would do to help. Instead, he kissed the corner of his lips apologetically, slow and chaste, but that quickly deteriorated again into slick, open fumbling, and the feeling began to change. Where moments ago he’d been happy just to do this, maybe even for the rest of his life, suddenly the urge to touch was overwhelming.

Loghain seemed to feel the shift as well. One of his hands slid from Maric’s shoulders down his back, lightly, as though afraid to press too hard. It came to a rest at the small of his back, pulling him in that little bit closer, and on instinct, Maric moaned loudly and put both his hands on Loghain’s chest.

The volume of it startled them both into stopping. Loghain glanced around the room, almost pointedly looking anywhere other than Maric. Maric, for his part, focused on the way he felt under his hands. He would be willing to swear he had touched Loghain’s chest before, at some point, applying poultices or helping bandage him after a particularly rough battle. It was difficult to remember. Even if he had, he would also be willing to swear it had never affected him the way it did now. Through the thin fabric of the tunic, he could feel every muscle as if there were no barrier at all. Moving one hand to rest farther down, Maric traced his abdomen with his thumb, playing along the ridges gently and rucking up the fabric under his touch. Loghain didn’t shy away, and he hadn’t let go, but the look he gave him made Maric go still.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, voice thick and rough. It sounded like desire, if Maric was any judge, and in spite of himself, the thought sent a great deal of blood rushing somewhere it didn’t need to be, not now. Shifting, Maric resigned himself to pulling away, to the conversation they would undoubtedly need to have, but when he tried to leave the circle of Loghain’s arms, the hold around him tightened. “Not out here,” Loghain added, his grip slackening in case Maric wanted to go after all.

Laughing, Maric dropped his head to Loghain’s shoulder for a moment and breathed, the bridge of his nose tucked into his neck. “Not out here,” he agreed, feeling his lower lip catch on skin. Loghain drew a sharp breath. “Come on.”

There was a quick moment where he thought Loghain might not follow him, frozen in place by the weight of his choice. It _was_ a choice. Maric had already made his, and knew that if he stopped too long to consider it, he would be lost. Standing in front of his bedroom door, one hand behind his back on the handle, he held his breath and prayed frantically that Loghain would make this mistake with him. They had made many before, and always, they survived. What harm could possibly come from one more?

A great deal, the logical part of him said, more harm than he could imagine, but Loghain helped him silence it by sealing their mouths together and putting a hand on his to open the door.

The next thing Maric knew, he was fumbling with the lock behind his back, crowded against the other side of the door with his free arm slung round Loghain’s shoulders. Concentration was difficult, if not impossible, with lips pressed to the hollow of his throat and fingers pressed like vises on his hips. They dug future bruises into his skin, Loghain’s grip nearly tight enough to hurt. Feeling blindly, eyes closed to focus on the dual sensations of the wood against his hand and the tongue under his jaw, he finally threw the lock, exclaiming in triumph.

One of Loghain’s hands roamed upwards to skirt underneath his tunic, the barest hint of skin on skin. Maric shivered, groaning. He didn’t have any sort of plan, no end game in mind for where this would take either of them. All he wanted, in this moment, was to put his own hands on Loghain, anywhere he would be allowed to touch. For that, he thought, gently pushing his friend backwards, they would have to remove their shirts.

As he struggled with Loghain’s tunic, difficult to pull up when he couldn’t keep away from his mouth, he noted dully that the servants had prepared his room for him at some point. There was a fire, near to dying but crackling merrily enough he didn’t think they needed to stop and tend to it. At some point, it had begun to rain. He could hear a barrage of drops rattling the windows, already covered by thick curtains to keep out the chill and the damp.

“Get off,” Loghain said, not unkindly, moving away from Maric with one hand between them. Maric nearly whined, all the blood and sense in his head drained down into his trousers, but when he did not advance, Loghain grunted in satisfaction and began stripping off his shirt himself – not a bad idea. Too eager, too hurried, Maric yanked his own tunic over his head and almost got himself stuck. When he was free, he shook his hair out of his eyes and refocused his attention on the man in front of him.

It was difficult not to feel a bit wrong-footed, somewhat unprepared. He’d kissed his small share of boys, years ago when his mother was alive, but the most significant encounters of his life were with Katriel, Rowan, Fiona – all very different from Loghain, in appearance and, especially, in temperament. Fiona came closest, he thought, but when he’d slid his hands up her waist and praised her, letting the words flow naturally as they came, she hadn’t rebuked him. Somehow, he didn’t think Loghain would appreciate being told he was beautiful. He would have meant it, seen it in the scars that tracked across his skin, in the breadth of his shoulders, but it was better to leave it alone. Still, a little afraid he might let something slip, he stepped forward to occupy his mouth with the junction of skin between Loghain’s neck and his shoulder.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured against the red mark he’d worried into his skin, trying not to shudder as Loghain touched him what felt like everywhere, all at once. One hand settled at the edge of his chest as the other drew him up for another kiss, the open-mouthed slide of their tongues against each other almost distracting enough to miss the feeling of a thumb swiping across his nipple. Hissing, he bucked involuntarily, driving his hips forward into Loghain’s, and that – _that_ was –

Even after they both jolted away, breathing heavily, Maric felt his response to the brief stimulation growing worse. He’d managed to ignore his cock, so far, but he was sure that wouldn’t be an option much longer, especially with the matching bulge growing noticeable in Loghain’s breeches.

“Come on,” Maric said, thinking quickly as he grabbed Loghain’s waist and guided him forward. “Come here.” Taking small backward steps, Maric stopped when he felt the edge of his mattress against his legs and sat abruptly. Loghain watched him unlace his boots and cast them aside, staring as if Maric were a strange creature he’d never seen before. “No dirt on the sheets,” he said as an explanation, shifting so that he kneeled, “no questions tomorrow. It’s not as if I wear my boots to bed.”

“Point taken,” Loghain said. He’d barely spoken since they left the solar, responding mostly in wordless grunts and sounds of what Maric hoped were appreciation. The rasp and timbre of his voice sent another spike of desire through Maric, leaving him so impatient he almost couldn’t bear the wait between Loghain bending to tend to his own boots and joining him.

As soon as he was close, Maric kissed him quickly and pushed him down onto his back, straddling his thighs. He wasn’t close enough to make contact where he wanted it most, but he was close enough to suggest it, and for now, that was all either of them could take. Loghain thrust shallowly into the air, once, grimacing as if he was in pain, but Maric settled more of his weight to keep him pinned.

“Not yet,” he said, the words falling out before he could stop them, “not yet, hold on.” He couldn’t reach Loghain’s mouth without getting up, so instead he bent to lave his tongue across his chest. Even before he reached one of Loghain’s nipples, small and stiff, for _him_ , he felt a hand rest heavy on the back of his head, fisting into his hair again. Sighing his name, Maric’s stomach flipped at the responding moan, drawn up from the depth of Loghain’s core.

He was dangerously close to letting his mouth run away with him. A collection of praise and endearments and confessions built up underneath his tongue, threatening to overflow if he wasn’t careful. They were moving too slowly, there was too much time to think, even as he felt like he was being pulled to pieces with how much he wanted. Finally, the last resort of a man trying desperately to let himself fall apart, Maric reached down with one hand and rubbed his palm against Loghain’s cock through his trousers.

“Stop.”

It took Maric a moment to understand. As soon as he did, he lurched upright and backward, sitting heavily on the mattress. Loghain pulled away to lean against the headboard, rubbing his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Maric panted. “Are you hurt? Did I–?”

Loghain shook his head, his hand still over his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice gruff, “you don’t have to humor me.”

“Humor you?”

Loghain glowered at him, his face flushed from heat, or their exertions, or embarrassment. Maric, completely baffled as he was, couldn’t say. “I don’t know what put this idea into your head,” he said, forcing each word out as if it pained him, “but you can’t possibly–” He stopped, snapping his mouth shut like a springing trap. Maric only stared at him, not sure what Loghain wanted to hear, or even what he was asking.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. “Do you think you coerced me?” he asked. He knew he’d found the answer when Loghain’s nostrils flared and he looked away. Sagging, he threw back his head and laughed, a short huff of relief that put a line in Loghain’s brow he wanted to smooth away. “Maker’s breath,” he said, “I’m not humoring you. I want this. I’ve wanted it for years. As much as you’re willing to give, I’ll gladly give back.”

Loghain sat up straighter, his eyes narrowed, and his fists loosely clenched in the sheets. His chest seemed to rise and fall a little faster, still covered in little marks here and there that Maric had left behind. He ached at the sight of them, wishing Loghain would let him make more, but he sat still on his heels, praying his sincerity would prove itself.

“How long?” Loghain said finally, without any intonation. The look he was giving him made Maric want to squirm, focused and hard, no mercy in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Maric finally committed himself to telling the truth, the whole truth, vocalizing it for the first time since it occurred to him. No more hiding.

“Two years, about,” he confessed, smiling sheepishly. “Since I… got back.” Judging by the way Loghain snorted, he remembered. “I started piecing things together, once we all had time to settle down again. Took me longer than I want to admit. But you were still married, and I–” He regretted bringing up Celia the moment he said it, both for the sake of Loghain’s feelings and for how uncomfortable it made him feel in the moment, both of them shirtless and half-hard in Maric’s bed. Clearing his throat, he tried to forget about it again, quashing the guilt that threatened to rise in his chest. “I kept it quiet. If anything, I was afraid you wouldn’t – well. I didn’t want to tell you.”

Loghain didn’t reply. He simply watched Maric for a time, scrutinizing him as if he were looking for chinks in armor. “You’re serious,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Maric fought desperately against rolling his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, just one side of exasperated, “I’m perfectly serious, I wouldn’t lie about this–”

Loghain closed the space between them quickly, forcefully, and Maric was lost in the movement of lips against his and the hands scrabbling for purchase on his body. It was more than Maric knew what to do with – the man he’d wanted for years, the friend he’d loved for longer, unequivocally wanting him back. He could feel his own heartbeat everywhere: banging violently against his ribs, throbbing in his hands as he ran them down Loghain’s sides to his hips. Mostly, he felt it in his cock, begging for attention with renewed interest, straining against his breeches almost to the point of pain.

“Please,” he said without meaning to, whispered into Loghain’s neck, high and reedy enough to be embarrassing. “Andraste’s sake, I can’t…” Unable to contain himself any longer, Maric slipped his fingers beneath Loghain’s breeches, inhaling shakily. “Take these off, please.”

Loghain cursed under his breath, but this time, there was no hesitation. Only withdrawing far enough that he could look down, he pulled at his laces with no sense of finesse, preferring to yank at them until they came undone rather than actually untying them. Distantly, Maric thought he might take the opportunity to divest himself of his own pants, but he was too distracted to change the thought into action. Instead, he watched hipbones slide into view, watched the reveal of a cock not unlike his own, so far as he understood cocks. All he knew for sure was that he felt another thrum of desire, the only way he’d ever felt when a partner was bared before him. He would learn more, over time, if he were lucky enough that this might happen again. It was too much to hope, even for him, feeling his chest swell to bursting, but he hoped anyway.

“Come on,” Loghain said impatiently, casting his trousers and smalls over the side of the bed. He didn’t seem to enjoy being stared at, frowning like it was an insult Maric couldn’t pull his gaze from between his legs. Rather than getting to the business of yanking his own pants down, Maric settled his hands over Loghain’s hips, thrilling at the heat of his bare skin, and drew him forward to kiss his way down his neck.

“Loghain,” he murmured, one hand sliding up the inside of his thigh, against the hairs that stood on end when he sighed along his collarbone, “I want – Maker’s breath, I don’t know.”

“Your trousers, then,” Loghain said, his head tipping back almost too slightly to be noticeable. Maric snorted, nipping at the cord of his throat. With his free hand, he gently pushed him down, encouraging him to lay flat again even as he mouthed along the line of his sternum.

“I’ve never done this,” he said, close, so close, his fingers brushing the base of Loghain’s cock. Loghain’s breathing stopped. “Not any of this. But if you’ll let me – can I?”

“Can you what?” Loghain snapped, reminding him for all the world of the tutors he’d had, years and years ago. He nearly laughed, smothering it in his friend’s stomach and covering it up with a scrape of teeth that made his muscles jump. Loghain opened his mouth to argue, Maric was sure, probably to insist he remove his trousers again, so rather than wait to be derailed, he quickly passed his closed lips over the rest of his path down to a hipbone, and then down again to hover near the junction of his groin and his thigh. Loghain clicked his mouth shut again.

“I’d like to,” Maric said, the best and only explanation he had. He held Loghain’s cock loose in his grip, wanting desperately to move his hand, to put his mouth on him anywhere and everywhere he would allow, but he held still. What he wanted most was an honest yes, honestly given.

A nod was enough.

He started at the tip, sliding his hand out of the way slowly and purposefully, his stomach dropping out when Loghain let loose a broken groan. Pressing open-mouthed, sloppy kisses, he worked his way down the shaft, wondering at the taste and at the undeniable thrill he got from Loghain’s hand threading through his hair, settling carefully at the back of his head. In all honesty, he thought as he steadfastly avoided eye contact, he knew he was probably awful. There was a significant difference in doing and having done, and with his experience solely in the latter, he could only guess at what might feel good if the mouth was on him, instead. Still, he hoped there was something to be said for effort. He was trying, Andraste help him, sucking a few inches into his mouth carefully so that his teeth stayed out of play, using his hand when his inexperience left some places untouched. He wanted it to be good, to be right. How much was it, really, to ask that this one thing not go wrong?

It didn’t take long for his jaw to feel sore, stiff and unresponsive too quickly for him to bring Loghain even remotely close to the edge. Determined to soldier through, he sank lower on Loghain’s cock than he thought he could, moving slowly and groaning low in his throat. Before he was ready to stop, however, the urge to gag became too strong and he had to pull back. Brilliant, he thought, huffing a heavy sigh and dropping his forehead on Loghain’s thigh.

“I’m sorry,” Maric murmured, feeling his face flush. As he spoke, he tilted his head and looked up at his friend’s face, the sooner to get over how badly he’d disappointed him. “I obviously don’t know what I’m doing, I just–”

Meeting Loghain’s gaze was like being struck by lightning. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest, one hand fisted into the sheets in a punishing grip that left his knuckles white. His pupils were blown wide, stomach trembling with some barely concealed effort, and he still held Maric’s hair between his fingers. Suddenly, Maric was once again very aware of exactly how tight his breeches were.

“I can try again,” he began, all his aches gone, every doubt settled in the back of his mind – what couldn’t he do, if he looked at him like that? Instead of letting him finish, Loghain used the hand at the back of his head to guide him up, across the length of his torso, to settle his weight against Loghain’s groin and crash their lips together.

“Trousers,” he growled against mouth.

Maric’s fingers flew to the tie.

In a few agonizing moments, he had his breeches and smalls bundled up in his hands, and then they were gone. For all he knew, they wound up in the fire. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Loghain hesitated before he put his hands on him, low around his hipbones. The touch was like a brand, his great palms and thick fingers gripping him as if Loghain meant to hold him in place. Instead, he slowly pulled and pushed him into a crouch over his groin, hovering just far enough apart that the suspense was nearly unbearable. Leaning down, Maric planted his hands over Loghain’s shoulders. It all felt strangely out of his control, as if he were watching what happened through another man’s eyes. Even his mouth wouldn’t move. Words built up in his chest, swelling him to what felt like bursting, but he found he couldn’t say any of them. Nothing seemed right.

What came out was a moan, too loud again, when he lowered his hips just enough that their cocks brushed. His mind fogged as if he were drunk; his skin tingled, and his spine bowed until he could rest his forehead against Loghain’s shoulder. “Maker’s breath,” he gasped. “Loghain.”

One of Loghain’s hands stayed steady at his hip, gradually encouraging him to rock back and forth, to bear down and rub against each other’s stomachs. The other arm curled around Maric’s shoulders, holding him down, keeping him close. The extra points of contact cleared Maric’s head, a little, at least so he could grind with a bit more purpose.

“Fuck,” he said, panting. “I think I need… oh, Maker.” Loghain groaned, low, the timbre of it vibrating straight into Maric to shake through his bones.

“Still talking,” Loghain said, a bit of a breathless laugh in his tone. Maric would have laughed in reply, but their cocks dragged against each other, hard and slow, one side of painful. He cried out, instead, biting his lip to keep half of it contained. Some slick would have been nice, something to ease the slide, but there was no way he could stop, now. He might never stop. They could lie there, rutting as if they were fifteen years younger for the rest of their lives, and Maric didn’t think he would mind.

It did not, however, seem likely they could last so long. Already, Maric could feel a tightness building, low in his belly. He felt he ought to be a little embarrassed, so close, so soon, but he had little room for such thoughts. Anyway, in his own defense, it had been two years. Judging by the way Loghain clutched at him, his urgency betrayed in the stutter of his hips, they were likely in the same boat.

“Nearly there,” Maric moaned, meaning it as both a warning and a question. “Please, come on, please, Loghain, be close, with me…”

“Always talking.” The words were harsher, almost forced, as though spoken through gritted teeth. Supporting himself on one wobbly elbow, Maric leaned up to look at Loghain’s face and immediately almost wished he hadn’t. The intensity there scalded him from the inside out. He saw, in that look, the reflection of everything he’d been afraid to say, of all the feelings he’d repressed over the years. He saw pure, unaffected lust, in the slant of his mouth, in the furrow of his brows, and in his eyes – oh, Maker.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that was love.

Maric was done the moment a strong hand wrapped around the both of them, gripped firmly but carefully, and pumped. He let himself be dragged down into a kiss, sightless again, except for the burst of color behind his closed eyes. Dimly, he thought he might be making a significant amount of noise, maybe even saying something against Loghain’s mouth. Through the fog in his mind, it was hard to tell. All he heard, clear and sharp, was a grunt that wasn’t his, and his name, murmured like it was a prayer. Warmth spread in what little space there was between their bodies. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Maric collapsed. He buried his face into Loghain’s shoulder, briefly, tasting sweat and feeling his pulse hammer against his cheek, and then he flopped to the side to rest on his back.

They lay there, not quite close enough for their bodies to brush, for what only felt like a minute. Their harsh breaths weren’t quite taken in tandem. Even as he felt his heart rate slow, Maric felt something else growing, a sick sort of anticipation that left him feeling on edge. Before he could put a name to it, Loghain sighed, so heavily Maric couldn’t help but turn to look at him. He was disheveled, marked red in a dozen places, and he refused to meet his gaze.

“This was a mistake,” he said, slowly, staring up at the ceiling. Maric clenched a fist, and unclenched it again. Of course. They weren’t even going to get the luxury of a proper afterglow. He didn’t know what he’d expected, and yet…

“Probably,” he replied, trying not to sound disappointed, “yes.”

Loghain sighed, again, and Maric braced himself. He’d promised, when they kissed for the first time, minutes, hours, days ago, he’d promised himself that they would do nothing Loghain did not also enthusiastically want. If he needed to say this could never happen again, to slam the door on something he’d wanted for what felt like an age, even if he knew it would break his heart… that was what they would do. Loghain was the best friend he’d ever had. Nothing was worth losing that.

He felt a light touch on his hand, barely a brush of skin against skin. Something about it felt bizarrely intimate, even as they lay there, naked and still drenched in sweat.

“It would happen again, if we tried to stop it.”

It wasn’t a question at all.

“Probably,” he said again. “Yes.”

Loghain let out a soft noise, maybe a chuckle. “Not worth the wasted effort, then.” A small subset of Maric’s nerves died down, mollified by the casual acceptance of their situation. He almost felt he could relax, sink back into the bed, or do what was needed to begin cleaning themselves up. There was, however, another matter that bothered him.

“This may be a bit belated,” Maric said, turning on his side, “but is it safe to assume you… feel the same way I do? About…” He gestured expansively, although he wasn’t sure at what. Both of them, the mess they’d made of the sheets, their clothes strewn about on the floor, all of it, maybe.

To his credit, Loghain did not hesitate. “Yes,” he said, this time. It was simple, as far as confessions went, but Maric thought he felt his heart crack. Someone else could have presented him with pages’ worth of poetry, and it wouldn’t have mattered half so much.

“How long?” Maric asked, echoing his earlier question. Loghain closed his eyes.

“Years.”

“More than two?”

“Yes.”

That time, Maric definitely felt his heart crack. He wanted to apologize, to beg Loghain’s forgiveness for being so unbelievably dense, but he worried if he tried, he might start crying. That was the last thing either of them needed. Loghain didn’t seem inclined to acknowledge what he had said, anyway. He lay still, finally breathing evenly, his hands resting on a part of his chest that wasn’t sticky with… Maric should have felt disgusted. He felt more disgusted that he didn’t.

When he felt he could trust himself to speak, he rested a hand on the bed between them.

“I am sorry,” he murmured. Loghain hummed and raised an eyebrow, one eye open to a slit. “For the… you know.” Maric brushed the backs of his knuckles over Loghain’s thigh, nowhere near his cock, but hoping he would follow the insinuation. “I hadn’t, before. Frankly, I thought you might be disappointed.”

Loghain opened both eyes and turned his head, fixing him with a look that made his stomach flip.

“I won’t fare much better, I fear,” he said coolly, “but believe me – I was not disappointed.”

Maric felt heat rise in his cheeks and in his groin. “Good,” he choked out. “Good. That’s – fantastic. Good.”

“In any case,” Loghain added, a hint of a smile playing about his lips, “we may find time to practice.”

Maric laughed at that, no longer worried about listening ears, or about what the morning would bring. He felt stupid with glee, suffused with a bone-deep happiness. He had forgotten what that felt like.  For a moment, he thought of Rowan, and of Celia, and he hoped they were happy, too, wherever they were. They deserved it – all of them did.

Then Loghain closed the space between them again, rolling to balance on one hand as he kissed him, hard, seeking, and Maric let the thought slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate everyone's patience and support as I worked to get this chapter where it needed to be. This is, indeed, the end of the story, but I am anticipating writing a short bonus chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at salutationtothestars on tumblr.


End file.
